


Couldn't tell you though I tried to

by powerfulowl (StuckyFlangst)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Tower, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Smut, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckyFlangst/pseuds/powerfulowl
Summary: Bucky was always a romantic. Steve would whinge and moan and then Bucky would always turn up in the evening of the 14th with a flower (I promise I stole it Stevie I didn’t pay) or a folded card (I made it myself) with a poem in his loopy handwriting.What was that poem? That poet Bucky liked so much?Out of the corner of his eye Steve looks at Bucky, at his soft hair, at the way he still rests his metal arm so carefully in his lap, even though when they are in the apartment together he wraps it around his mug of tea, as if he felt some of the warmth in the metal and it brought him comfort.For Bucky, Steve thinks he can be a romantic now, after all these years have brought them back together after he thought Bucky was lost to him forever.-----Bucky's getting better, living with Steve in Avenger's Tower. Though they're not what they used to be to one another. But it's Valentine's Day soon - maybe Steve can show Bucky just how much he still cares.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71
Collections: Cupid's Stupids: A Stucky Valentine's Day 2021





	Couldn't tell you though I tried to

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for Cupid's Stupids: A Stucky Valentine's Day 2021, for @_Kris__G on Twitter. I have literally never written so much fluff. There is still angst, but there is a lot of Steve doing nice things for Bucky. If you're into that kind of thing.

The apartment is quiet when Steve gets in, after Sam dragged him up to Harlem for Puerto Rican food. It doesn’t mean Bucky’s not here. He’s so quiet these days.

It’s better, yes, than the screaming and the sobbing when his memories started coming back. It could happen at any time during those long, early months after Bucky had turned up in the foyer of Avengers Tower in sweatpants and a hoody, hair tied back.

Steve wasn’t even there for Bucky. Was off hunting down Hydra and ghosts, while Bucky was dropping on his knees onto the marble floors in front of Iron Man.

So Steve wasn’t there when Bucky looked Tony in the eye and said _I killed your parents_. When Tony gripped Bucky round the throat with the gauntlet and almost crushed the life out of him before anyone else knew what was happening. Dropping him at the last moment with a sob and stumbling away.

Steve was there later, in the bare cell where they kept Bucky for the first month, when Bucky said he didn’t even remember it – had just seen it in a file. Unspoken that he had known Steve was elsewhere, had sought Tony out alone. And later still, when Bucky did remember killing Howard and Maria, his body wracked with sobs, Steve’s hands hovering over his freezing, sweat drenched back, uncertain whether to touch or stay away.

But Bucky was quieter now. The bad memories had all been reborn into his mind, serum-seared in place. Steve assumed that good ones had returned as well, but was careful not to do too much _do you remember when_ for f.ear Bucky would think he wanted that old Bucky back. When everything Steve wanted was right here.

Perhaps Steve could admit that there was some truth in it Not that he wanted that Bucky back again, the smiling charmer with the soft lips and pomaded hair, but that he wanted _them_ back – those days. Days that at the time seemed so hard and full of sickness, empty bellies, too cold winters and too hot summers. But oh the moments of sweetness – the first warm days of spring or the blessed chill of early fall. Those boys crammed into a tiny apartment, curled together in a small bed, loving one another.

He couldn’t say to Bucky – _it’s not just him I grieve for, that long ago Bucky Barnes, it’s me as well, it’s little Steve Rogers that no one now remembers except you._

Steve stops for a moment outside Bucky’s door. He almost asks JARVIS if Bucky is in, but stops himself. He goes into his own room and shuts the door.

He hopes Bucky will come down to breakfast tomorrow.

\-----

Breakfast was the first meal Bucky started emerging for, sitting down with Steve at the little table in the apartment near the window, where Steve liked to sit and drink his coffee.

Bucky drank tea. Some caffeine-free stuff Natasha was into called _rooibos_.

‘I made oatmeal, if you’d like some,’ Steve said casually, as if he hadn’t been making two supersoldier breakfasts worth of oatmeal for the past three months and staring longingly at Bucky’s closed door.

‘Thanks,’ Bucky said, with a little smile that Steve treasured close to his heart. ‘That sounds nice.’

Bucky didn’t come out every day, but by now it was most days. Steve had expanded his repertoire to omelettes, eggs benedict, breakfast burritos, pancakes and waffles.

Every time he tries a new thing Bucky raises an eyebrow at him and Steve wonders if he remembers what a terrible cook Steve always was. But he’s too afraid to ask.

Recently, a couple of times, Bucky has even come down for the traditional, semi-regular Avengers Saturday morning breakfast.

So when Steve gets up on Saturday he takes a long shower and potters around the apartment for half an hour unnecessarily moving around blankets and cushions on the couches and checking his phone.

And it’s totally worth it when Bucky emerges in soft, red long-sleeved henley and grey sweatpants with his Black Widow slippers. His hair is falling softly around his face, freshly blow dried by the look of it.

He smiles at Steve. ‘Did I keep you waiting?’

Steve grins. ‘Yeah, punk. You don’t have that much more hair than me, why does it always take you so long?’

For a moment Steve’s heart stops in his huge, echoey chest. _Why does it always –_ that’s what he used to say when Bucky had nagged him into going out, and Steve would be ready to go and Bucky would still be at the sink fussing with his hair.

But Bucky just gave a laugh and tossed his head.

‘Might not be that much longer but it looks a hell of a lot better, jerk.’

Steve bends down to fuss with the laces on his runners so Bucky won’t see the tears in his eyes.

They’re quiet in the lift, but it’s nice. Bucky is relaxed. Steve is relaxed, if a little emotional.

Of course it can’t last.

Tony has ordered a mountain of heart-shaped waffles and strawberries. Strawberries _in February_. There’s gallons of pink-tinged cream and a pile of bacon cut into heart shapes (which Steve finds oddly disturbing). At least the maple syrup is normal.

‘I’m rehearsing for Valentine’s Day,’ Tony gestures at the piles of food. ‘I always forget so I thought if I _practised_ it might help me remember.’

‘Practice away, my friend,’ Clint says through a mouthful of waffle and bacon, a carafe of coffee in his right hand.

Bucky presses a little closer to Steve. They take plates and sit at the table.

‘Strawberries in _February_ ,’ Bucky mutters, and Steve’s heart gives a little jump.

Then Tony looks at them and his eyes widen in glee. He clutches a waffle heart to his chest.

‘So _Cap_ , what are _you_ doing for _your_ boy for Valentine’s Day?’

Steve’s ribs constrict and his throat seizes. There is no right answer here. What if he says _we’re not like that_ but Bucky knows they were, thinks they are, they could be, thinks Steve doesn’t care. What if he says something that implies they _are_ but Bucky doesn’t want that? Steve can feel panic rising and Sam’s not here because he stayed the night with his sister up in Harlem and Tony’s opening his mouth to keep ribbing him –

‘Steve’s never been a romantic,’ Bucky says, voice calm and amused. ‘He always got grouchy around Valentine’s Day about people selling cards and flowers.’

Tony crows and takes a bite out of the waffle. ‘I knew it, I knew he’d be part of the Valentine’s Day is commercial rubbish crowd.’

‘Well, it’s even worse now than it was back then,’ Steve hears himself saying, like this is just a joke, just a normal breakfast conversation. ‘That was mostly just greeting cards and flowers and trinkets. _These days_ –’

And everyone’s laughing, including Bucky, who elbows him gently, soft hair falling across his face as he leans down to take a mouthful of strawberries and cream.

Bucky was always a romantic. Steve would whinge and moan and then Bucky would always turn up in the evening of the 14th with a flower ( _I promise I stole it Stevie I didn’t pay_ ) or a folded card ( _I made it myself_ ) with a poem in his loopy handwriting. What was that poem? That poet Bucky liked so much?

Out of the corner of his eye Steve looks at Bucky, at his soft hair, at the way he still rests his metal arm so carefully in his lap, even though when they are in the apartment together he wraps it around his mug of tea, as if he felt some of the warmth in the metal and it brought him comfort.

For Bucky, Steve thinks he can be a romantic now, after all these years have brought them back together after he thought Bucky was lost to him forever.

\-----

Steve has some vague ideas about this romance thing. Cards, flowers, poetry. They seem to be classics. But he decides this is one of those areas where he needs advice. Given his record of hostility to the day.

He asks Sam first, on their morning run. Sam glares at him, panting.

‘Romance advice waits until the after-run smoothie, Steven.’

Steve sprints off and then distracts himself by doing pullups at an outdoor gym until Sam catches him.

‘Dancing,’ Sam says, slurping on his Elvis smoothie (chocolate, banana, peanut butter). ‘Dinner and dancing is always a winner.’

Steve contemplates this. Bucky did love dancing. Spinning the girls in the dancehalls, eyes bright and feet light and fast as birds. He’d always drop a wink to Steve, who’d be scowling on the sidelines, or talking politics with the union guys.

Nobody ever thought Steve could dance, because when he did stand up with a woman he’d be so awkward. But it was because the person he danced most with was Bucky, who’d always lead as they danced around their flat to the music on the wireless. When he was in Bucky’s arms he’d feel suddenly graceful, feel like he was _right_ , fitting perfectly in Bucky’s arms, warmed by those blue eyes gazing down at him, only him.

He finds Clint at the shooting range. Clint who apparently managed to get married.

‘Valentine’s Day?’ Clint tilts his head. ‘When I was young I liked to do something a bit different. Like, an activity. Archery lessons, for example. You know, I have to stand behind them, show them how to pull the bow back.’

An activity sounds like a reasonable suggestion, though Steve thinks Bucky isn’t super keen on the weapons at the moment, even if it’s just a bow.

‘What other kinds of activities?’ Steve asks.

Clint stares at him for a long time.

‘Okay, archery,’ Steve says finally.

‘Or you could just go out for coffee,’ Clint shrugs. ‘Get the barista to put a heart on the latte.’

Steve sighs, and wanders off to ask someone else. He tries to think about what he and Bucky used to do together in terms of _activities_.

They were usually pretty broke. And February was pretty cold. In the warmer months they would go to Prospect park maybe. They went to the movies together a lot. Steve thinks back to the night before Bucky shipped out. How they’d arranged to meet and see a movie, but Bucky was late, and then Steve had got into that stupid fight. He’d been so mad at Bucky.

Then he thinks back further. Sitting in a cinema watching Carey Grant and Katherine Hepburn. Thinking Bucky was just as handsome as Carey Grant. _You know it’s the same leopard, Stevie? He’s the best actor in the film_.

He finds Bruce on the rooftop in the greenhouse. Bruce looks a little sad when Steve asks him for Valentine’s advice. His eyes get kind of a faraway look in them.

‘I always liked to do something quiet. A nice home cooked meal by candlelight, fresh cut flowers on the table.’ Bruce looks at the cuttings in his hands – some sort of lily Steve thinks. Exotic flowers that grow here even in the New York winter, tended carefully by Bruce. ‘Feel free to take anything from in here.’

Steve contemplates the option as he goes back down the lift. Hi breakfast cooking has definitely improved, but he’s never had the focus or the patience for evening meals. Maybe if Bucky came out of his room in the evenings he’d try harder.

Steve remembers the bland, boiled stews he’d often make for him and Bucky. Steve’s mother was a dab hand at making something delicious out of not much, but Steve had not inherited that skill. Bucky, on the other hand, if he was out of work or home early enough, could always magic up some delicious soup with herbs he’d sweet talked out of someone’s window box, with flat bread fried in their beaten-up iron skillet.

Of course he runs into Tony, who seems to have caught wind that Steve is looking for advice.

‘Steve, Captain Capitalism is Bad, I hear you’re looking for romantic advice.’

Steve glares at him.

‘Tony, I’m letting Bucky make his own choices. I just wanted to do something – nice. For him.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yadda yadda, no pressure, etcetera.’ Tony waves his hands. ‘Pepper’s given me the lecture.’

He claps Steve on the shoulder, ignoring Steve’s scowl.

‘What you’ve gotta do is a trip, a getaway, an excursion! Maybe Hawaii? Or another island? The mountains? Paris, the city of love? You can use the jet. And any of my houses. Or I could book out a hotel? Talk to Pepper! Let me know!’

And then Tony’s gone.

Steve lets out a sigh. A trip might be nice. They’d always talked about the Grand Canyon.

But. Bucky was still delicate. _They_ were still delicate. A trip would mean just the two of them, together. No space for Bucky to retreat to that was his own.

When Steve thought about when they had been the happiest it was in their tiny apartment. Steve at the table sketching blue pictures or ads for grocery stores. Bucky lounging in his undershirt and shorts reading a science fiction magazine. Waking in the morning curled into Bucky’s back, feeling the steadiness of his breath, really believing that Bucky could breathe for Steve, that his heart could beat steady enough and strong enough to keep Steve alive just a bit longer. Just a bit longer for them to love each other.

He sighs, and curls into an armchair opposite Natasha, who is wrapped in a bright yellow knee length cardigan with orange bobbles. She’s reading some giant Russian novel – _Обломов_. Whatever that is. A picture of some guy sleeping on the front.

‘A knife.’ She doesn’t look up.

‘What?’ Steve asks.

‘A nice knife. Maybe with a little message engraved on the handle. Can’t go wrong.’ She turns a page. ‘I’m getting him a nice Captain America set for his birthday, so don’t do that.’

Steve nods, and wanders off again. It’s actually a pretty good idea. Bucky always did like knives. He liked to whittle, particularly in the long winter evenings. Little figurines from wood that drifted in on the river, or scraps from building sites. Mermaids, boats, little houses. _Maybe we’ll have a whole house of our own one day Steve._ Those gentle, calloused hands finding shapes in the wood.

Steve returns to the apartment. A home cooked meal Bruce has suggested. Steve looks around. The cooking is one thing. He’s capable of reading a recipe and watching seventeen YouTube videos. But _home_.

Is this home?

It’s a beautiful space. Light-filled. Some of the furnishing choices are a little weird – modern couches combined with ‘antique’ sideboards. Steve notices that mostly he and Bucky have just added more and more blankets and cushions, as if to soften the edges, break up the blue and grey colour scheme.

Steve sighs again. A super sigh. From deep within his chest. He crashes onto the sleek blue leather couch and buries his face in a Hello Kitty cushion.

Romance is hard.

An hour later the finest strategic mind of a generation clicks into gear.

He needs to talk to Pepper.

\-----

Bucky hasn’t seen much of Steve for the past week. He always seems to be out, or on the phone.

He can’t meet Bucky’s eyes, even at breakfast time. Which Bucky thinks about as being _their time_ now.

Bucky knows that Steve got all tense when Tony brought up Valentine’s Day. Bucky wants to say _it’s okay Steve I know it’s not like that anymore, I know I’m not him anymore, but I’m happy with this, with whatever you have to give me_.

But the words stick in his throat. Because it’s a lie. He wouldn’t be happy. It’s more than he deserves, but these scraps of Steve can never be enough. The wolf in him would still prowl, hungry and unsatisfied.

On the 10th, a thought occurs to him. That Steve is worried because there’s _someone else_. That Steve will need to tell Bucky soon. Will need to say _Buck, there’s something I have to tell you, there’s this person that I really like and –_ And what?

Bucky’s mind whites out for a while and he comes to lying on the floor of his room, cold with sweat. He takes a long, warm shower and doesn’t come out for dinner, even though he hears Steve banging about and cursing, which means he’s giving cooking a try again.

The 13th is a Friday. Of course. Bucky wakes up with lead in his stomach. Steve has barely looked at him for days. Has barely been here at all. Bucky can hear him out in the kitchen. He can’t keep doing this. He can’t bear this much longer.

Surely Steve has to tell him today.

He forces himself up. He pulls his hair back in a bun, hands quick and thoughtless. It makes his heart ache but he pulls on a soft blue cashmere sweater that he took from Steve. A pair of black jeans. Sweatpants make him feel more vulnerable.

Steve is in the kitchen. He’s made Bucky’s tea and his own coffee. There’s a mug in each of his big hands.

Steve turns and looks straight at Bucky with a blinding smile. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a bottle green cable knit cardigan over a purple Hawkeye t-shirt.

He is beautiful and shining. Just like he always was.

Bucky stops and trembles. He can’t. He can’t.

‘Bucky!’ Steve grins at him, carrying the mugs to the table. ‘I made hashbrowns and scrambled eggs and bacon and toast. We’re going to need a big breakfast today.’

Bucky slides into his chair. Unsure. He reaches for the tea and wraps his flesh hand and his metal hand around the mug, feeling the difference in the sensation – the difference in the information sent to his brain.

Steve is _glowing_. Bucky is confused.

‘What big day?’ he asks.

Steve’s face is possibly going to split open he’s grinning so hard.

‘It’s a surprise.’ Steve jumps up again and returns with plates piled with food.

Bucky has to admit, he’s really improved on the cooking front since the forties. They eat in silence, Steve wiggling in his chair and sneaking looks at Bucky the whole time.

Bucky narrows his eyes and tries to assess the situation. Steve doesn’t look guilty, or afraid. He looks a bit nervous, but it’s that kind of nervous where you’re worried that a person might not like the card you made them, or the flower you stole from a posh garden on your way home from work.

Steve clears away the dishes.

‘I’ll clean up out here. You’ – he points at Bucky – ‘go and pack.’

‘Pack?’

Steve nods. ‘A few days worth of clothes. Toothbrush. All your fancy hair stuff. As many knives as you want.’

Bucky glares at him, but Steve is impervious to his Winter Soldier glare. Obviously when you’ve curled up beside someone while they scream their throat raw and sob their eyes dry, their murder glare doesn’t work on you anymore.

So Bucky sighs. A super sigh. And goes and packs a duffle bag. With a little wheelie suitcase for his toiletries.

Steve gets their coats out of the hall cupboard. Bucky’s is a blue peacoat that Steve bought him. Part of Bucky feels like he shouldn’t like it so much. Looking a little like Bucky from the war. That the world remembers as a hero. He’s not him anymore, with his messy bun and the lines etched in his face that even the serum can’t erase.

But Steve looks at him with such tenderness that Bucky has to chide his heart to still – _he just remembers who you were, that’s all_.

They take the lift down to the basement and Happy’s waiting for them. He puts the bags in the trunk, smiling at both of them. He must be in on the secret.

They’re not taking the jet or anything. Which is good. Bucky could see Stark talking Steve into some wild plan like taking Bucky to Hawaii or Paris or something. Not that this is a romantic thing. Whatever it is that they’re doing.

Bucky stares through the tinted window at New York passing by. All those people. All those lives.

Some days all he wants is that house he used to dream of, where he and Steve could live together, get married. Steve would paint and be rich and famous and Bucky would – well, he hadn’t really wanted to do anything in particular. Except dance and make Steve laugh.

Steve twitches the whole way, biting his lip pink.

They cross the bridge into Brooklyn, and the streets are familiar but strange, like so much of the world. At least here he knows the source of the familiar, knows it was maybe the best part of his overlong life. He feels a little less stretched here, a little more solid.

Steve and him have come here a few times. To go to the park. To eat bagels. To make fun of the hipsters.

They’re in Brooklyn Heights now. They’re stopping in front of an old brownstone building. It’s tall. Five stories and a loft.

Maybe it’s a fancy hotel or something? No, that’s too romantic. And it’s not even Valentine’s Day. Tomorrow though. Could Steve be? But no. They’re not like that. Anymore.

Steve’s opening the door and bounding out, racing around to Bucky’s side and opening the door. He holds out his hand and Bucky takes it.

Steve doesn’t let go while Happy hands them their bags and carries Bucky’s little suitcase down the stairs to the entrance.

Bucky’s heart is racing and he’s warm, even in the biting chill of the winter day. The sky is as blue as it ever gets in the city and the branches are dark and stark against the sky.

Steve’s hand is warm in his. Steve never even seems to notice whether it’s the metal hand or the flesh hand. _They’re your hands, Bucky, that’s all_ , Steve had said to him, the first night he reached out to hold him in the darkness while Bucky huddled on the floor in the hallway outside Steve’s room.

Happy opens the door with a flourish and Steve pulls him in. There, on the threshold, he turns to him.

‘Welcome home, Bucky.’

It’s just an entrance hallway. There’s a beautiful art nouveau hall stand with a mirror and coat hooks and a little pottery bowl with keys in it. Underneath is a wooden shoe rack. More hooks for coats on the other wall. Like the people who live here might have a lot of coats. Might have friends who visit them in the winter. Or when it’s raining.

Bucky looks at Steve. At his pink-flushed cheeks and his smart navy coat the Natasha obviously bought him.

‘Home?’ he says. Latching on to that word.

‘Yeah, Buck, it’s our home.’

And Bucky sort of laughs sort of sobs and clutches Steve’s hand tightly and drops his bag.

‘Congratulations Captain, Sergeant,’ Happy says, throwing the keys he used into the bowl and closing the door behind him.

‘Steve, this house is enormous.’ Bucky looks up at the ceiling, at all those floors. ‘It could house fifteen families easily.’

‘I know, Bucky.’ Steve rubs the back of his neck a little sheepishly. ‘To be fair, these days it probably wouldn’t house fifteen. Maybe four.’

There’s a long pause then Steve whispers, face so earnest and serious that Bucky’s heart trembles, ‘I just wanted us to have a place that was ours.’

Bucky takes a shuddering breath and looks at Steve’s puppy dog eyes and he – he accepts it. He accepts it. Because it’s what Steve wants. For them to have a place.

He breathes out. He smiles and sniffs and says – ‘Okay Rogers, give me the tour.’

Steve rewards him with a bone-crushing hug and something incomprehensible murmured into his hair. He takes off Bucky’s coat and hangs it carefully on a hook, beside his own.

Something about the two coats hanging side by side makes Bucky feel warm in his belly.

They start by going down.

‘There’s a fucking _basement_ as well?’ Bucky snorts.

Steve doesn’t even have the decency to blush anymore. He just smiles and with a flourish opens the door to the _home fucking cinema_.

There’s a projector ser up in the wall, and a permanent screen occupying the other. There’s four rows of four huge cinema seats in plush red velvet.

‘The arms lift up,’ Steve demonstrates and lowers his eyelashes.

Bucky stares at him. Is that a hint? That Steve wants to _snuggle_? In their _home cinema_.

The other room in the basement is just a cozy nook with a daybed and lots of blankets and cushions and soft carpet and a lamp but no window.

‘Just for – you know – quiet times,’ Steve shrugs and gently closes the door again.

The ground floor they entered on has a kitchen that gives out onto a courtyard. It’s a bit bare, but Steve says Bruce is keen to help with the little garden in the spring, and there’s a table and chairs set up. Bruce is in on it then. They’re probably all in on it. It’s why they’ve been giving him _looks_ for the past couple of weeks. He thought they were sorry for him.

The kitchen has an island bench with stools, and a little table by the window, like their one in the apartment. There’s a more formal dining room with a big wooden table.

The floorboards are polished and richly coloured. The curtains are brightly printed.

‘William Morris,’ Steve says, like Bucky would know what that even means. Steve was always into design stuff.

The next floor up is a living room with huge, supersoldier-sized couches. Everything is brightly coloured. Two floral armchairs face out towards the window and Bucky can see Natasha buried in one reading Dostoevsky or Turgenev or Tolstoy or whatever other depressing Russian literature she claims is _actually really funny James_.

‘Don’t worry, all the cushions and blankets will be moved from the Tower to here.’ Steve stares at Bucky.

Bucky knows he’s thinking about the Hello Kitty cushion. Whatever. Who doesn’t want a cat cushion to hug during tough times.

His heart is beating so fast and he is so fucking in love with Steve Rogers. This is all too much and not enough.

They go up another level.

Steve is a little less certain here.

‘Um, these are two of the bedrooms.’ He opens the two doors off the hall. Both of the rooms have huge California king beds. Both have quilts in a star pattern – one yellow and cream and green with floral patterns, and one black and grey and midnight blue patterned with constellations, with clouds.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand to say _it’s okay, it’s okay that you just want us to be friends_. He doesn’t say it out loud though, because he doesn’t really mean that.

The next floor has a spare bedroom with another quilt in red, blue and white which Steve has obviously rejected, and a little gym with huge windows. Kettle bells and weights, ropes and swings. Bucky’s favourite pink yoga mat already rolled out on the floor.

And finally, the loft. It’s set up as a studio. An easel, a drawing table, art supplies. The room is flooded with the afternoon light. There are views across the rooftops of the city.

‘This half is yours,’ Steve gestures to the empty half of the room. ‘To do whatever you want.’

Bucky looks at it. The space. The promise. _Whatever you want_.

Through the French doors they step out onto a rooftop terrace. It’s still cold, and a chill breeze cuts through their sweaters.

Suddenly Bucky finds himself being pulled close, wrapped into the furnace of Steve’s arms, head pressed to the pillow of his chest. They stay like that for a while, out in the wind. Bucky cries a little and knows Steve must feel the damp of his tears.

Steve lifts Bucky’s chin with a finger and gazes down at him.

‘So,’ he says, wiping Bucky’s tears with his thumb. ‘I have some plans for this evening. But it’s been a big day. Maybe we should have a little rest.’

Bucky nods, breathing deeply through his nose. He can. He can do this. He can live in this house with Steve Rogers, who he has always and will always love. In their separate rooms under their separate quilts. He can find a hobby and do – something – while Steve is drawing or painting across the room with that little line between his eyes and his mouth all puckered up in concentration.

Steve leads him down the stairs again until they reach the landing between the two main bedrooms. Steve keeps holding his hand. Steve takes both Bucky’s hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across the palms – metal and flesh. The sensations are different because the hands send information to his brain in different ways. Both of them say _yes please yes_.

Steve looks at him. They loved each other so long, when they were different people in almost every way. It was the best thing Bucky has ever done, loving Steve.

‘Bucky,’ Steve says, ‘there are different ways things could go now. I want you to know that you have a choice.’

Steve’s face looks strangely calm. His blue eyes are fixed on Bucky.

‘First, I want you to know that I love you. In all the ways I used to love you before we both died, and in whole new ways that I haven’t even started to understand myself, let alone tell you.’

Bucky starts to tremble, but Steve’s hands, his eyes, hold him steady.

‘I bought this house for _us_ – like the one you dreamed for us all those years ago. It was going to be a Valentine’s present but that seemed kind of ridiculous and OTT and also presumptuous, so I thought I’d bring you here today.’

Bucky wishes his hair looked better. He wishes he deserved the clear-eyed devotion in Steve’s eyes. Steve who has held him down when he tried to claw his own flesh off, tear his own arm off, as he bit his lips bloody and screamed like an animal.

‘I would love, more than anything, for us to sleep together in one of these rooms, whichever you like better, under whichever quilt you like best, or a different one.’

Steve takes a shuddering breath, face screwing up into that ridiculous expression he makes when he’s making a sacrifice.

‘But if you want to sleep in different rooms, that’s okay. If you just want to be friends that’s okay. If you want me to leave, or if you want to leave, all of that’s okay.’

He leans over and presses his forehead to Bucky’s. ‘I just wanted you to know I’m a romantic for you, Bucky Barnes.’

And there’s nothing Bucky can do except breathe in the scent of Steve – of vanilla soap and apple shampoo because he is a ridiculous man who smells like a pie – of Steve. Breathe him in then lean in a little and catch the plump pink swell of his lip, taste toothpaste and a hint of coffee still lingering.

They haven’t kissed since 1945. Bucky’s lips were so cold that morning, but Steve’s were still serum-warm. Bucky had snuggled up to him in the tent and grumbled _can’t a guy get a lie in anymore_ and Steve had laughed with delight. Bucky had known he was being difficult, withdrawn but clingy, running hot and cold. Steve would frown at him sometimes but was just so happy anytime Bucky curled into him, kissed him, called him sweetheart.

This kiss, here, now, is different. Both of them have died since then. Bucky’s learned to be grateful. Steve’s lips tremble against Bucky’s. Still so warm. The breathe each other in for a long moment, Steve still holding Bucky’s hands. Then Bucky tugs gently at Steve’s mouth, and again, tasting him, and again.

Steve moans and kisses back, catching Bucky’s lips with his. He lets go of Bucky’ hands and reaches up to cradle Bucky’s face, calloused fingers tracing Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky reaches round and runs his palms along the muscles of Steve’s back – they flex and shudder as Bucky parts his lips and lets Steve’s tongue press into his mouth.

His whole world is Steve now. Steve embracing him, pulling him closer so their bodies press together – their chests moving quickly against one another, the jut of Steve’s hipbones digging into Bucky, the length of their thighs.

Steve pulls away, panting, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping Bucky’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together again.

‘Bucky, I –’ Steve’s lips are pink and his cheeks are flushed.

‘Steve.’ Bucky knows he should say more. Should say _I love you too_. Or _you’re everything to me Steve_.

‘Which room would you like, Bucky?’

‘The one that looks out over the street, into the tree,’ Bucky replies immediately, running his thumb along Steve’s cheekbone.

Steve smiles and his eyes flutter open, clear blue gazing into Bucky. ‘And which quilt?’

‘The one that’s like the sky,’ Bucky whispers.

‘That’s sounds perfect.’

Steve leads him into the front room and pulls back the quilt.

‘Let’s have a nap,’ he says. ‘It’s been a big morning and I’ve got more plans for later.’

Bucky toes off his shoes and sheds his pants and his sweater. Steve does the same, all the while watching Bucky with eyes full of delight and hunger.

Bucky lets his eyes trail over the expanse of Steve’s chest, the swell of his pectoral muscles, the long lines of his thighs.

‘What kinda plans, Rogers?’ Bucky asks as he crawls into the bed.

Steve grins as he lies down, tugging the quilt up over him.

‘I’m gonna show my best guy a nice time.’ And with that look of stubborn determination he’s had since he was ten years old, Steve Rogers reaches out for Bucky Barnes and pulls him close, so Bucky can rest his head on the pillow of Steve’s chest and Steve can card his long fingers through Bucky’s hair.

‘You’re so beautiful Bucky, so special,’ Steve murmurs into Bucky’s ear. Bucky is crying a little. He’s sure Steve can feel the wet tears on his t-shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Bucky falls asleep so quickly his cheeks are still damp.

\-----

Steve is downstairs in the kitchen when he hears the shower start. Bucky must be up.

His chest is full of liquid sunshine. Bucky in his arms. Bucky _kissing_ him. Bucky curled into his chest, asleep. Right where Steve can keep him safe, pour a never-ending stream of love over him.

Sometimes Steve doesn’t understand his younger self. So spiky and resentful. Scowling at the flowers, the cards, the little trinkets Bucky brought home to him, always with a delighted smile and a teasing kiss. He should have done a better job of loving Bucky.

There’s a sound by the door and Steve looks up from heaping rocket into a salad bowl.

Bucky is showered and fresh. His hair has been blown dry and hangs in glossy curls around his face. His beard is trimmed short. He’s wearing a grey silk shirt with tiny flowers, black jeans, and a lavender cardigan.

He is the most beautiful person Steve has ever seen.

‘Bucky,’ he breathes.

Bucky smiles at him. Not shy or hesitant, but _joyful_.

‘That dinner I can smell, Stevie? I’m starving.’

‘Yes!’ Steve bounds over to him and presses a careful kiss to his lips, smelling the mix of herbs and flowers that accompanies Bucky when he’s freshly showered. ‘You look great Bucky.’

‘Well,’ Bucky drawls, ‘I heard that a guy might be shown a good time tonight.’

Steve feels his face splitting in two.

‘Please,’ he gestures to the kitchen table, covered with a red and white checked tablecloth with a single candle in a holder.

Bucky laughs with delight, and Steve rushes over to pull the chair back for him.

As he sits Bucky breathes in deep through his nose. ‘Did you _cook_ Steve?’

Steve crosses the kitchen and opens the oven door, reaching in with oven-mitted hands to pull out the lasagne which has been resting in there. Bucky stares at it wide eyed and Steve bursts into laughter.

‘Sam’s mum made it and gave me very strict instructions as to the heating process.’ Steve put the dish on the bench. He carries over a basket of sliced bread and puts it in the middle of the table. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and lights the candle, watching how the flame plays over the window, over Bucky’s entranced face.

He serves up two huge plates of lasagne and salad and brings them over, planting a kiss on Bucky’s forehead.

‘Oh, and wine.’ He brings over the bottle. ‘Tony gave it to me. He said it’s really old and really expensive and will be wasted on us because we’re heathens and can’t get drunk but he forced it on me anyway.’

Bucky examines the label as Steve pours them two huge glasses and settles in opposite Bucky. He can feel himself beaming and Bucky is across from him glowing in the candlelight. Steve raises his glass.

‘To our new house,’ he says.

‘To our new home,’ says Bucky, with the softest smile in the history of the universe, raising his glass and clinking it against Steve’s.

While they eat Steve tells Bucky the story of how he found the house, and how Pepper helped him with all the legal stuff.

The wine is good and warm, even though Steve’s sure he’s not appreciating it like he should. But it’s staining Bucky’s lips a little red, along with the lasagne. They eat the whole dish and toast Darlene Wilson.

Steve blushes when Bucky asks him why she made it.

‘I just wanted tonight and tomorrow to be perfect for you Bucky.’

Bucky stares at him incredulously. ‘Is this – is this a _Valentine’s_ thing Steve?’

‘What?’ Steve gives a guilty jump. ‘No – it’s not Valentine’s Day until tomorrow.’

Bucky raises an eyebrow and smiles into his glass.

‘So, what’s next?’ Bucky asks. ‘I’m feeling pretty well rested now, so I hope you’ve got more plans for us, Captain.’

‘Well, _Sergeant_ ,’ Steve retorts, ‘I have cherry pie and icecream, and then I’m taking you to the pictures.’

Bucky laughs, and Steve’s belly warms at the sight of his bared throat, the hollow of his clavicle. He holds his breath for a moment, trying to settle the hot desire snaking through his crotch, making his cock shift in his pants.

Instead he busies himself with the cherry pie. When he places a slice in front of Bucky, Bucky laughs again and Steve blushes.

The pastry on the top is a series of small hearts arranged in circles, pale against the red of the cherry filling.

‘Bruce made it,’ Steve says.

The laughter lingers in lines around Bucky’s eyes while they eat. That is how Steve once imagined Bucky would look as he got older – all his laughter gathering in his face and settling there. And this Bucky isn’t exactly like that. This Bucky has furrows where pain will always rest, lines of grief. But the grief tangles with joy around his eyes and mouth.

Steve watches Bucky’s tongue flicker over his lips stained now with cherries and wine and feels the press of Bucky’s knees.

Afterwards they leave all the dishes in the sink and go down into the basement. Steve sets up the projector and settles in the front row next to Bucky. They link their hands together and Bucky squeezes Steve as _Bringing Up Baby_ starts on the screen.

‘You still handsomer than Carey Grant,’ Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear.

‘And you’re cuter than Katherine Hepburn,’ Bucky murmurs huskily.

Steve giggles, remembering how cross he’d been when Bucky said that to him back in 1938 after they’d left the cinema. Steve had stormed off and Bucky had chased him down the street laughing. Steve was older and wiser now – wise enough to appreciate that Katherine Hepburn was pretty damn cute.

They laugh so much they cry, and Bucky keeps whispering commentary, even though there’s only the two of them here.

‘That leopard’s a real good actor Steve.’

Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand so hard he’s glad it’s the metal one and he can squeeze as hard as his heart wants.

When the movie is over Steve takes Bucky by the hand and leads him up to the living room. Bucky’s just giving him a faintly amused look, but Steve is fully committed at this point. He had a version of this night in his head where Bucky said _I just want to be friends Steve_. In that version they didn’t hold hands during the movie, and at this point they went to their separate rooms.

In this version, the best possible version, Steve takes Bucky’s hand and leads him to the empty space in the middle of the living room floor. He turned the lamps on earlier, so the room is bathed in a gentle yellow glow. He turns on the stereo and carefully places the stylus on the record, right on the song he wants to play.

Billie Holliday starts singing as Steve turns back to Bucky and crosses the room.

_Ask the sky above  
And ask the earth below  
Why I'm so in love  
And why I love you so_

Bucky watches him approach, soft and open-mouthed. As Steve steps in close Bucky raises his arms, placing his right arm on the curve of Steve’s waist and taking Steve’s hand in his metal one. Steve smiles and places his left hand on Bucky’s shoulder. And Bucky moves his feet and Steve follows.

_Couldn't tell you though I tried to  
Just why I'm yours  
When you went away  
You left a glowing spark_

‘I don’t think I remember this one Stevie,’ Bucky says, breath warm in Steve’s ear.

‘It was released in 1947, but I think it’s real nice,’ Steve says.

_Trying to be gay as  
Whistling in the dark  
I am only what you make me  
Come take me  
I'm yours_

_‘_ Yeah, yeah it is,’ Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s neck, just below his ear and Steve shivers as it sends a spark along his nerves, firing in his chest, his groin. Bucky hums and mouths down Steve’s throat, their feet still moving in time to the music. Steve loves this. Loves this surrender to Bucky’s firm hands, his sure steps.

_How happy  
I would be to beg or borrow  
For sorrow  
With you  
Even though I knew  
Tomorrow  
You'd say we were through_

‘Bucky,’ Steve clutches Bucky’s shoulder, feeling the firm muscles, the creep of Bucky’s fingers under Steve’s shirt.

_If we drift apart  
Then I'll be lost and alone  
Though you use my heart  
Just for a steppin' stone  
How can I help dreaming of you  
I love you  
I'm yours_

‘You showed me a real good time tonight,’ Bucky pulls Steve close as the record arm clicks and raises, tongue flicking along Steve’s jaw. And it’s Bucky now, leading Steve. Leading him up the stairs to the bedroom, _their_ bedroom that Bucky chose, said _I want to share with you Steve_. Bucky who’s in front of him, hair still falling in such perfect waves, cardigan stretched across his shoulders and his biceps, jeans straining against his thighs.

Steve thinks maybe he moans. Bucky looks over his shoulder, grinning, eyelashes dark and heavy. Bucky _grinning_.

They’re in the room and Bucky is pulling Steve’s soft blue cashmere sweater over his head, running his hands over Steve’s chest and _oh_ Steve cries out tweaking his nipples. Steve’s cock is hard in his jeans. His head is fuzzy with desire and happiness.

‘Bucky,’ he whines, ‘ _Bucky_.’

Bucky just grins and pulls Steve’s shirt off, smoothing his strong hands over Steve’s bare flesh, eyes dark and hungry. His hands are on Steve’s fly, unbuttoning, unzipping, Bucky’s hand is pressing on Steve’s hard cock through the fabric of his briefs. Steve moans throaty and desperate and Bucky’s smile grows wider. He pushes Steve back onto the bed and Steve collapses onto his elbows, legs splayed wide. Bucky drops to his knees between Steve’s legs, tugging off Steve’s jeans and running his hands along Steve’s inner thighs.

And the contrast between the cool of the metal and the warmth of Bucky’s flesh short circuits Steve’s brain. He’s making noises, babbling, Bucky is staring up at him, lips parted, still pinkened from cherries and wine.

‘Bucky, today is meant to be _for you_ to show you –’ Steve struggles with the words, his skin burning and his cock pulsing.

‘Stevie,’ Bucky chides, digging his fingers into the meat of Steve’s thighs, ‘ _this_ is for me. Don’t you remember? How much I liked this? Liked getting on my knees and sucking you off.’

And Steve does, he does remember how after Bucky would give him a stolen flower, or a handmade card, or a poppyseed cake from Essen’s bakery, and Steve would grouch and frown _I ain’t one of your dames you can buy off so easy Barnes_ and Steve would pretend to go back to his drawing _I got work to do Bucky_ , and Bucky would slide to his knees, still in his shirt and braces, and unbutton Steve’s pants.

And now Bucky’s kissing along the soft flesh of Steve’s inner thigh murmuring ‘So fucking beautiful Steve skin’s so soft,’ sucking a little, teasing the seam where Steve’s leg meets his groin. Steve’s a mess, tears in his eyes and broken noises in his throat.

‘Look at you, blushing all the way down.’ Bucky pulls at his briefs and slides them off Steve’s body, leaving him naked and exposed, cock hard and hot and pink against his belly. His balls feel tight and full and ready to explode and Bucky seems to _know_ and reaches out with that cool metal hand and cups his balls and squeezes and rips a cry from deep inside Steve.

And then _oh_ Bucky’s lips are closing around the tip of Steve’s cock and Steve stares down across the expanse of his own torso, his heaving chest, his tensing abs and there’s Bucky’s eyes looking up at him, crinkling and shining, as his cherry-red mouth wraps around Steve. His tongue is flickering wet and warm across the base of Steve’s cock, he bobs his head lower and pulls back, runs his tongue along Steve’s weeping slit, bobs lower again. Steve clutches the quilt and squirms and writhes, molten pleasure pooling in his belly rising to meet the hot warmth of Bucky’s mouth around his cock.

He’s saying Bucky’s name like a mantra a prayer and Bucky answers by sucking him deeper, swallowing him down, squeezing his balls, tugging them a little. And all that power in that hand turned to such gentle precision, like the teasing scrape of Bucky’s teeth on Steve’s cock. Steve sobs and comes into the back of Bucky’s throat and he swallows hungrily, drooling a little from stretched lips, lapping at Steve’s softening cock as Steve shudders, oversensitive and ruined.

Bucky pulls off with a slurp and Steve puts his hands through his hair, pulls him up for a wet, lingering kiss, tasting himself tangy and sharp on Bucky’s mouth.

‘Why you still got your clothes on, jerk,’ Steve tugs at Bucky’s cardigan.

Bucky laugh and steps back, stripping off his cardigan, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the hills and planes of his chest, his belly now a little softened around the edges from the hard lines of the Soldier, dark hair curling across his torso, a trail leading down from his belly button. And then, his eyes still fixed on Steve, his hair in disarray and his mouth glistening wet, he wriggles out of his jeans. He’s wearing nothing underneath. His cock hangs fat and heavy between his legs, nestled in a dark thatch of hair. And his thighs – oh god his thighs are incredible – thick bunches and ropes of muscle so soft and unyielding all at once.

‘ _Bucky_ ,’ Steve holds out his arms and Bucky straddles him, pressing their flesh together, pressing his swollen length against Steve’s, half-hard again already. Then Bucky spits on his palm and takes them both in hand and Steve keens at the bolt of sensation that shoots through his cock. He’s damp with come still and as Bucky fucks into his fist, thighs and ass clenching, fucks against Steve, Steve cries out and clutches Bucky round the waist, overwhelmed by pleasure that hovers on the border of pain. He stares into Bucky’s eyes, and Bucky’s brow is furrowed now, the teasing gone, replaced by an intensity of sensation that matches the fire in Steve. Bucky’s holding on Steve’s shoulder with his metal hand, eyes flicking from Steve’s face to their cocks glistening in Bucky’s fist.

When Bucky comes with a hoarse shout, coating his fist, coating Steve, it only takes a few more rough thrusts for Steve to come again, weeping into Bucky’s shoulder.

They stay like that sweaty and sobbing for minutes, hours, years, as the fluids cool on their skin.

When Bucky moves Steve clutches at him and Bucky shushes him, soothing. Then Bucky’s lifting him off the bed and carrying him into the bathroom, Steve cradled in his arms like he would only ever allow Bucky to do when he was sick enough to worry this might be their last day together.

Steve’s wiser now. Knows any day might be his last. So he lets Bucky wash him down in the shower, rub handmade soap across his skin that comes from that hipster market. Steve dips his tongue into the hollow of Bucky’s collarbone and Bucky croons to him.

Then they curl up warm and fresh under their quilt made from the sky.

\-----

On Valentine’s Day, Bucky wakes up to Steve leaning over him, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a navy hoodie.

There’s a breakfast tray beside the bed, with two plates, a pile of waffles shaped like hearts, icecream and poached pears, with two glasses of fresh squeezed blood orange juice. In a vase is a bunch of white flowers shaped like stars.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Bucky,’ Steve smiles at him like the sun. ‘Pears are in season. And so are these,’ he points to the flowers. ‘Stars of Bethlehem.’

Bucky struggles up and Steve arranges his pillow behind him.

Bucky blinks at him. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Steve Rogers?’

Steve laughs and kisses him on the nose, which almost makes Bucky’s heart explode into a million stars, a million flowers that signal a miracle has occurred.

‘I got you a present too.’ He hands Bucky a carefully wrapped package. Simple red tissue paper with a white ribbon.

Bucky narrows his eyes and pulls off the wrapping hastily.

‘You never had any patience when it came to presents,’ Steve shakes his head, still grinning.

Inside is a wooden case stained a dark colour and patterned with natural swirls. Bucky lifts the lid and nestled in black velvet are a set of knives. Well, some are knives and others are tools with curved heads or pointed tips. Bucky runs his hands across them. The handles are all in the same dark stained wood – a red-brown colour.

‘They’re carving knives,’ Steve says, looking down shyly, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheek. ‘You’ve always liked knives. Even before the war. You used to carve.’

Bucky’s throat is thick with tears and his fingers tremble a little as he touches the knives, that aren’t meant for killing but for _making_. Like that little house he made for Steve, or the birds for his sisters, the mermaid who sat on their ledge while he told Steve stories about the sea and the stars. He could make all those things again. Those beautiful things.

He runs his finger along the edge of the lid and feels an inscription.

_For Bucky, All my love, Steve_

‘Thank you, Steve. They’re perfect,’ Bucky looks up at those clear blue eyes and leans forward for a kiss.

They eat waffles in bed and kiss each other sticky and senseless.

‘So you don’t think Valentine’s Day is rubbish anymore Stevie,’ Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair.

‘Sure I do, Bucky,’ Steve replies. ‘This is just like any other day. I mean, yesterday I gave you a house, and that was just an ordinary Friday.’

‘And today you gave me stars,’ Bucky kisses his head. ‘And knives.’

‘And every day I’ll give you another part of the universe,’ Steve presses a finger in the dip in Bucky’s chin, looking determined, hair sticking every which way. ‘It’s a good thing the universe is infinite.’

Bucky stares at him and laughs. ‘It is a good thing, a very good thing.’

‘Bucky,’ Steve strokes Bucky’s hair back from his face. ‘Who was that poet you like? You used to sometimes write out his poems for me?’

‘William Carlos Williams,’ Bucky replies. ‘He wrote about just ordinary things, ordinary lives. How beautiful they were.’

‘Maybe you could recite one for me, for Valentine’s Day? Since you forgot to get me a present.’ Steve pokes Bucky in the chest.

‘Hey, I was just trying to respect your wishes _as I understood them_ ,’ Bucky gripes back, tugging Steve closer until he’s half lying across Bucky.

Bucky thinks for a while. It turns out there are a lot of poems in his head. Fancy that. He must have stored them away all those years ago.

‘Alright,’ he says finally, ‘I’ve got one.’ Steve hums contentedly.

‘ _Sweep the house clean,  
hang fresh curtains  
in the windows  
put on a new dress  
and come with me!  
The elm is scattering  
its little loaves  
of sweet smells  
from a white sky!  
Who shall hear of us  
in the time to come?  
Let him say there was  
a burst of fragrance  
from black branches._’

Bucky falls into silence, listening to the rumble of Steve’s breath.

‘Who shall hear of us,’ Steve whispers. 'Just ordinary people, loving each other. That's all we were.'

'That's all we are, Stevie, that's all we are,' Bucky whispers back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I went a bit wild on this challenge because I was so excited to get prompts. Expect a few more!
> 
> Find me and say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/powerfulowl2) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stuckyflangst).
> 
> The crazy thing about this story is that I am in my personal life clearly in camp Valentine's Day is commercial rubbish! But I love Billie Holliday and William Carlos Williams.


End file.
